


Like to Tell You All I Want

by ilookedback



Series: sleepless nights [1]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Food, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleep Deprivation, Spoilers for episode 2x01, angsty handjobs, flagrant overuse of em dashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25777138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: “He’s not sleeping,” Javi says. She sighs and doesn’t say anything and he takes a drag off his cigarette while he waits for her to speak. Blows out the smoke away from the phone.“I don’t know what you want me to say, Javi.”“I’m not trying to—” he starts, frustrated. He doesn’t want to sound angry with her. That’s not what this is about, at all.“Just.” He breathes again, in and out, contemplating. Brushes a thumb over his lips and watches the ash grow on his cigarette. “If you were here. How would you get him to sleep?”(in which Steve isn't sleeping and Javier takes matters into his own hands)
Relationships: Steve Murphy/Javier Peña
Series: sleepless nights [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880401
Comments: 14
Kudos: 146





	Like to Tell You All I Want

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this fic is a little bit unbalanced but I'm doing this whole fanfic thing for fun and I stopped having fun continuing to try to edit it so I decided to call it done, haha. I hope that it reads well! It's written on a razor thin premise, in any case. I just wanted to put some Steve/Javi out into the world.
> 
> Title is from Set Down Your Glass by Snow Patrol. The full lyric is _When your eyes meet mine I lose simple skills/Like to tell you all I want is now_.

Connie picks up on the fourth ring, sounding harried and slightly out of breath. “Hello?”

“Connie. It’s Javier.”

She’s silent for a moment and when she speaks he realizes it’s because she was steeling herself, bracing for him to tell her something awful. Her voice sounds young over the crackly long distance line. “Is Steve okay?”

“He’s fine,” he tells her. “I mean. He looks like shit, but nothing happened to him. I’m not calling because something happened.”

“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay, good.”

“He’s not sleeping,” Javi says. She sighs and doesn’t say anything and he takes a drag off his cigarette while he waits for her to speak. Blows out the smoke away from the phone.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Javi.”

“I’m not trying to—” he starts, frustrated. He doesn’t want to sound angry with her. That’s not what this is about, at all. “I’m not trying to pick sides or tell you to come back, Connie.” He’d almost said, _to come home_ , but he knows Colombia is not the home for her that it is for him. For Steve, even, by now. She had something else to go home to still, something more important than this chase. He wonders what that feels like. 

Maybe he envies her a little.

“Okay,” she says again.

“Just.” He breathes again, in and out, contemplating. Brushes a thumb over his lips and watches the ash grow on his cigarette. “If you were here. How would you get him to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “A beer and a blowjob?”

He’s silent. Nothing to say to that that isn’t cruel— _should I get him a hooker, then?_ —or helpless— _please come home_.

“Is he eating?” she asks.

“A little bit, I guess, yeah.”

“Give him something starchy,” she offers. “Potatoes, spaghetti. That always knocks him out.”

“Okay.” It feels ineffective, but. He makes a mental note to check his kitchen cupboards for pasta. Tries to picture a mound of spaghetti big enough to counter Steve’s broken heart.

“I used to—” she starts, and then she cuts herself off, rueful. “He wouldn’t let you do that.”

“What?”

“He would lay his head in my lap and I’d stroke his hair while we watched TV or listened to records. He likes that. It relaxes him.”

It’s almost as unhelpful a suggestion as the blowjob, he thinks, and he wonders for a moment if he should hire one of the girls to just stroke Steve’s hair. For some reason the thought of it makes the back of his neck go hot. He feels a headache coming on.

“Javi,” she says. “I’m sorry, I have to go, I—” there’s a screeching sound in the background, a little kid throwing a tantrum. “Sorry, Jesus, my nephew is…” Her voice fades away and then she’s speaking to someone else. He leans an elbow on his knee and rubs at his temple, waiting. “Javi. I really have to go. Thank you for looking out for him. He’ll feel better once he gets some sleep. It’ll pass.”

“Yeah,” he says. He’s not sure it’s true, but maybe it’s a good thing for both of them to hold out hope.

“Take care of yourself, too.”

“Sure,” he says, and it’s not really true either.

Javi’s not much of a cook, but he can fix a box of instant mashed potatoes as well as anyone, he figures.

He tells Steve, “You’re having dinner at my place,” brooking no argument, and Steve looks at him with the dull gaze he’s been sporting lately and shrugs. But he shows up a little while after they both get home from work, and he’s even changed into a clean t-shirt and jeans, so Javi counts it as a step forward.

The potatoes are passable but somehow nowhere near the quality that Connie makes them, and he gets distracted and overcooks the steak he’s serving with them, and for once he’s a little grateful for Steve’s current state because he doesn’t seem to notice or care. After they’ve eaten, they sit on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, and Javi turns on the TV, tries to subtly watch Steve out of the corner of his eye while he gives half his attention to reading a file he’s brought home. Steve still has that dull look, tired but antsy and unsettled under the surface. He’s hunched on the couch and he looks exhausted, undereyes smudged dark, and it hurts to look at him.

Javi thinks—he wonders. If this is a piece of the same hurt that Connie felt, watching Steve sink further away from her as the months went by.

Javi thinks about it, thinks about it. Thinks about Connie’s words, _he wouldn’t let you do that_ but _he likes that_ , and he stretches his arm out along the back of the couch and then works his fingers into Steve’s hair at the back of his head, watches Steve’s eyes fall shut, a line of tension appearing between his eyes like he’s in pain.

“Javi,” he chides him, voice gravelly from disuse and too many cigarettes. He moves like he’s going to pull away from the touch. Like he doesn’t know what’s good for him. Javi grips his head a little firmer, feels as Steve’s neck relaxes and he drops his head forward, and Javi tugs lightly to pull him sideways on the couch. Steve lets out a big sigh, like he’s doing Javi a favor here and he’s not happy about it, but he lets himself be led and settles his head on Javi’s thigh. He lies there with his eyes closed and the TV turned on low while Javi balances his file on the arm of the couch with his right hand and strokes through Steve’s hair with his left.

And eventually, like a miracle Javi’s forgotten how to pray for, Steve falls asleep like that, breath skating steady and peaceful over the top of Javi’s leg.

Later, the TV’s gone dark and Javi’s kicking himself for not bringing the bottle of whiskey within reach before pulling this maneuver. He’s pinned in place, not against his will but not entirely comfortable, and he’s given up on reading his file of unreliable informant intel so he’s pushed the folder onto the end table next to the couch and has his cheek propped on his hand, his own eyes threatening to fall shut.

Steve shifts in his sleep, turning on his side to press his face into the bend of Javi’s hip, mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, and Javi glances down to watch him, so he sees it when Steve halfway wakes up and moves his head, nuzzling into Javi’s belly. And Javi—holds his breath, watching wide-eyed, unsure. Not touching Steve’s hair anymore but hovering his hand over him, an inch away. Finally Steve opens his eyes, looks up at him, frowns microscopically.

“Javi,” he murmurs, almost a question, and Javi says, “You thought it was someone else?” but if he means it as a joke it falls flat.

Steve’s face goes pained again. He shifts his hips and knocks his head carelessly against Javi’s lap, raises his hand to rake through his hair in frustration. His hand bumps against Javi’s, still hovering helplessly over him. “Javi,” he says again, deep voice cut with urgency. “I want—I want—” and he hides his face again against Javi’s belly, breath panting hot through the fabric of his shirt. Javi reaches his right hand down so he can cup Steve’s head in both hands, turn him gently to look up at him again, and when Steve opens his eyes he looks _feverish_ , his gaze is so heated and unfocused. Somehow—something in his face must give it away because without consciously thinking about it Javi glances down the length of Steve’s body, sees the bulge where he’s gone hard in his jeans. He looks back at Steve’s face, brushes his hand through Steve’s hair and watches his face go tight and desperate. “Javi,” he whispers again.

“Okay,” Javi says quietly. His heart is racing but he keeps his voice calm. Soothing. “It’s okay. Come here,” he tells him, and pulls him up gently, guides his body to pull him close. And Steve clambers up, shoving his long leg over Javi’s to straddle his lap, meeting his gaze with wide eyes. Javi tucks his hands under the back of Steve’s shirt, touching his bare skin, rubbing along his back, and watches Steve’s eyes flutter closed. “Okay?” he says, and Steve nods, ducks his chin down a little.

“Do you want—” Javi starts, and he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. _Do you want me to touch you_ , is what he wants to say, but he’s already touching him. _Do you want me to jerk you off_ seems like it might break whatever fragile thing this is. He feels that pang of hurt again. He wants this to be easy. Unbreakable. “More?” he finally finishes— _do you want more_ , and Steve nods. Javi pulls one hand around to Steve’s belly, running the back of his hand gently over the vulnerable, soft skin there, and brings it to rest on his belt buckle. He tucks two fingers into the waistband of his pants, right where a light trail of hair grows leading down. “Yeah?” he asks again, double-, triple-checking before he accidentally crosses a line they can’t uncross. Steve’s eyes come half open, heavy-lidded and fever-hot still, and he nods again.

“Okay,” Javi says again, on an exhale, and he brings his other hand forward as well so he can use both of them to undo Steve’s belt buckle and unzip his jeans. Steve’s hips push up to meet his hands, and his breath is turning loud, harsh in the quiet space. When Javi’s got his right hand on Steve’s dick he moves his other hand up to the back of Steve’s neck, raking through his hair again, and Steve chokes out a moan and collapses against him, burying his face in Javi’s neck and canting his hips to thrust into his hand.

It’s too dry and he has to grip him gently until he can gather the tacky-wet precome gathering at the head of Steve’s cock on his fingers, spread it down his length, working in the tight space between them, but Steve groans again like it’s good, the vibration of it humming across Javi’s skin, and Javi starts stroking him more firmly. He realizes that his hand in Steve’s hair has gone tight, pulling at the short strands, and tries to make himself loosen his grip. Steve opens his mouth against Javi’s neck, running his teeth over his skin—he bites him and Javi flinches, feels his breath catch, the rhythm of his hand faltering for a moment. He tugs at his hair in a light admonition that makes Steve turn his head again, pressing his forehead against Javi’s shoulder instead. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “ _Please_.” Steve’s left hand is wrapped around Javi’s bicep but his right hand he shoves up under Javi’s shirt, pushing the fabric up until he’s got his hand over his heart, curling his fingers to clutch at him. When he comes it spills over Javi’s fingers and spurts hot onto his exposed stomach, and Steve cries out muffled against his shoulder, sits there panting and quiet as he comes down. And Javi strokes his hair gently, soothing fingers against his scalp. Feeling him relax.

After a minute Steve shifts his hand down to feel at Javi’s dick, and Javi stops him, grabbing his hand with Javi’s messy one. “You should let me,” Steve mumbles, sounding sleepy but determined, and Javi squeezes his hand lightly. Takes a breath.

“Next time,” he tells him. What he means is, _if there is a next time, if you’re not delirious and out of your mind with sleep deprivation and grief, if I know you won’t hate me for letting you do it_. And Steve lets out a sigh, releases the last ounce of tension in his shoulders, and relaxes against Javi’s body. He lets him sit there for a few minutes, holding his hand and absently stroking his hair, and finally he nudges him gently to sit back on the couch.

“Stay there,” he tells him. “Don’t move for a minute.” Steve looks like he could barely move if he wanted to, all lazy limbed and shut eyes. Javi goes and washes his hands and cleans the come off his stomach and gets a washcloth damp with warm water, gives it to Steve when he gets back to the couch. Steve cleans himself off and tucks himself back into his underwear but leaves his jeans undone and Javi makes a decision.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re going to bed.” He helps him off the couch and gets him to Javi’s bedroom, lets Steve balance a hand on his shoulder while he steps out of his jeans. He falls into Javi’s bed, buries his face into pillows that must smell like him, and Javi watches him for a long moment. He rubs his hand over his chest, feeling for the ghost of Steve’s fingers and the softened remnants of that aching pain, and he wonders what kind of mistake he’s just made.


End file.
